My country song would smell like mixed colognes on a twin bed in a college dorm room, before I had to find a rhyme for masc only. It would be a list of the long gone—buried in the dating app graveyard I call my phone.
My lonely country song would swell with strings and text messages and cry for other country songs like this country song—the one that was played on the thumpa-thumpa jukebox of single men with too many vodka cranberries and not enough 3/4 timings.
My country song would dress up in indie-pop drag because country radio is the last gay frontier. But what’s more country than costumes and kind strangers? Craigslist is the new truck stop. And on the very last pluck of my guitar I’d say oh boy in my sweetest baritone because the only way you’ll ever hear my country song is if it goes viral.